


The Last Blood

by orphan_account



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Catharsis, Execution, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15977519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What if Olaf's plan to poison the islanders had gone prematurely awry? This fic explores the potential consequences of his actions.





	The Last Blood

Olaf stood precariously on the beach, surrounded by a throng of islanders and their facilitator, Ishmael. 

“I’m Kit Snicket!” he proclaimed in a grating, high pitched voice.

“You’re not Kit Snicket,” Friday Caliban groaned. “You’re not a woman at all!”

“Friday’s right!” said a member of the crowd. “You’re a fraud!”

“Out with the fraudster! He’ll just rock the boat!”

“Throw him into the sea!”

The Baudelaire children silently watched from the edges of the crowd as insults and threats were hurled at the villain that had tormented them for so long. They knew the danger of mob violence from their experiences in the Village of Fowl Devotees and Caligari Carnival, among others, but had no intentions of stopping this particular instance. The islanders, if a bit bland in their customs and cuisine, had thus far supported them thoroughly and unconditionally. Before the mob could exact their vengeance on the impostor, however, Ishmael intervened from atop his sleigh.

“Now, now everyone,” he said calmly, but firmly. “We are civilized here. Can you prove that you are Kit Snicket?”

“Of course!” Olaf wheezed.

“No you can’t,” Friday insisted. She walked up to the villain and snatched off some seaweed he had been utilizing as a scraggly wig. The girl then produced a serrated clam shell from her robe and sliced Olaf’s dress open, revealing a large brass sphere on his lanky abdomen.

“Have you no respect for my dignity?” the Count shrieked.

“What dignity?” Violet asked sarcastically.

Olaf growled menacingly, abandoning all pretense of obfuscation; a phrase which here means, “attempting to cross-dress as a pregnant woman to gain the confidence of an idyllic island’s population.”

“If I can’t be accepted here as Kit, you will all die,” he coldly spoke.

“That’s an empty threat, and we all know that,” Klaus said pointedly. “You’re just one man, and we are many.”

“Klaus is right,” Friday agreed. “What’s in there anyway?”

“This is a diving helmet from the Queequeg,” explained the villainous actor. “And it contains one of the deadliest substances known to man. Turn and face your deaths!”

The Baudelaires gasped. Had Olaf retained a sample of the Medusoid Mycelium? Sunny, particularly afraid after her personal encounter with the fungus, sheltered herself between her brother’s legs.

Olaf spun the helmet around so that frontal glass faceplate faced his captive audience and smashed his fist through it with nearly inhuman strength. With a cry of pain, he uttered what he believed were his last words.

“The last safe place is safe no more. Enjoy the remainder of your pathetic lives, you sheep.”

After initial gasps and hysteria from the audience, Friday stepped forwards and pried the helmet from his hands. She encountered little resistance, as Olaf was mostly occupied with nursing his self-inflicted wound. After examining it thoroughly, she made an announcement to her fellow islanders.

“This helmet is empty,” she said simply, somewhat in disbelief of her own observation.

“What was that?” Ishmael asked. “Please speak louder, and everyone else should quiet down.”

“It’s empty!” she repeated. “There’s no deadly fungus in here. There’s nothing at all except for some stale air and traces of seawater.”

“That’s impossible!” Olaf cried. “I placed the the Mycelium in there myself!”

Unless you are incredibly meticulous, you have probably misplaced an item vital to your success before. It might have been your homework assignment, whereupon your teacher confronted you about the danger of irresponsibility, or it might have been the affections of a person whom you care deeply for, which resulted in arson and stolen figs. In either case, you will experience a sinking feeling of dread in your stomach and an absence of figs. After his initial wave of denial, the Count encountered this same sinking dread as he found that he had been outsmarted not only by children, but by pure dumb luck.

“You must have played the ol’ switcheroo on yourself,” Violet said snarkily. “Serves you right, you bastard.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, you wretched girl,” Olaf snarled. “I’m still going to get my hands on your fortune, and then I’m going to gut your siblings alive as you watch.”

Klaus, who had grown accustomed to such threats and had been personally assaulted by Olaf, simply rolled his eyes. “Give it up, Olaf. We’re all figuratively in the same boat. You have no way to get our fortune and no way out.”

“There will be no gutting of any children!” Ishmael proclaimed. “Or any adults, for that matter. Olaf, for your egregious crimes of upsetting the order of this island, threatening innocent children and impersonation of a librarian, you are hereby sentenced to death. Is everyone present in agreement with this verdict?”

“Aye!” shouted the Baudelaires.

“Yes!” said Friday in unison.

The others followed suit, with vigorous nodding and calls for further retribution. The facilitator raised his hands with open palms to quiet the crowd, and he continued.

“In accordance with practicality and mercy, you will be shot at dawn by a firing squad. To this end, five rifles and ammunition will be made available to anyone who wishes to execute you. May whatever god you believe in have mercy on your soul.”

“I am God,” Olaf spat. “And you will all bow down to me! I am the ruler of Olaf-Land!”

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Friday muttered.

“How will we keep secured until dawn?” an islander asked. “I don’t want to spend the night guarding a villainous wretch!”

“A large bird cage was recently found by Erewhon,” Ishmael explained. “It will be Olaf’s holding cell. I’ll see to it that it is placed in plain view to allow for ease of surveillance.”

The facilitator whipped the reins of his sheep and headed off towards the arboretum. In the meantime, the islanders gathered coconut husk strands and wove makeshift manacles for Olaf. 

“This is inhumane,” he whined as he was restrained and laid stomach down on the beach.

Klaus laughed sharply at this comment. “What’s inhumane is attempting to marry a fourteen year old girl for her fortune. Don’t worry, you deserve everything that’s coming.”

“You think I’m the only villain, orphan?!” the Count screamed dementedly “I know terrors that would rend your soul and flense your hides without a second thought! You’re achieving nothing by imprisoning me in this squalor!”

“Closure,” responded Sunny. “We get closure.”

Without warning, Klaus promptly struck his longtime tormentor across the face. The latter gasped in pain and writhed in the dirt, unable to escape to any sort of haven.

“That was for the damn roast beef,” Klaus said. “And that was my closure.”

“Let’s get going, Klaus,” Violet suggested. “We should help the others prepare for dinner.” 

Together, the Baudelaires and Friday walked towards the tents, secure in the knowledge that the evil that had plagued their lives would soon be at an end. That evening, the children at their dinner solemnly as they watched Olaf being forced into cage. His restraints were subsequently cut, and he proceeded to flash rude gestures at the islanders in his vicinity and shout obscenities. Upon witnessing this tantrum, Klaus spoke up.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he said. “Slapping him really was closure enough for me. I can’t bring myself to shoot someone, especially after what happened with Dewey.”

Violet was visibly puzzled. “But he’s a despicable, vile man, Klaus!” she whispered. “Not to mention incorrigible. If he survives, he’ll find a way to escape, and then what will happen to the real Kit or other survivors of the hotel fire?”

“Are you familiar with the term trigger finger frostbite?” the middle Baudelaire responded.

“No. What does it mean?”

“It was a term used by German soldiers in the Great War who could not bring themselves to shoot to kill,” he explained. “They were farmers, clerks, teachers and other ordinary people called to arms in a rush to defend their country. But many simply could not kill men had no personal quarrel against. Fusillading requires all shooters to fire simultaneously, and if I hesitate for just a moment, the entire execution could be botched.”

Violet digested this information for a few seconds before responding. “I will represent our family on the field, then,” she said simply. “It seems only fair that his intent to capture me at all costs is what does him in.”

Her siblings nodded in agreement. 

“I will also volunteer for the squad,” Friday stated. “And Omeros told me that he was interested as well.”

“That makes three,” observed Klaus. “Do you know who the other two will be?”

Friday shrugged. “I suppose we will find out tomorrow. In the meantime, we should get some sleep. We have to get up before first light, after all.” 

With this, the islanders began retiring to their nightly tents. Klaus slept fitfully, and woke first to a star-speckled sky. He gasped as he saw Milky Way streaked across the clear tropical heavens in its full glory. After a moment of silent admiration, he walked to his sisters’ tent and gently shook Violet awake. She groaned as she rose from her slumber.

“I was in the middle of a dream,” the eldest Baudelaire said. “I’ve had it before. I dreamt last night that I was back in my bedroom in the mansion when the smell of smoke began permeating the air. I tried to alert you or Mom or Dad, but you were all gone. I then tried to track down the source of the fire to extinguish it, but the smoke just kept getting thicker and blacker until she began seeing the outline of Olaf.”

“That sounds awful,” Klaus said sympathetically. “At least we won’t have to worry about him after this morning.”

With a nod of agreement, the Baudelaires walked to the plot where Olaf remained imprisoned within a cramped cage. A small crowd had already gathered, and Ishmael had begun distributing the aforementioned rifles to volunteers. Omeros and Friday had already received theirs, as well as Professor Fletcher and Ariel. Violet stepped forward to receive hers. In the dim light of pre-dawn, she had been unable to make out the details of each weapon, but was surprised to recognize hers as an M1 Garand in nearly perfect working order. Have studied various field manuals for standard arms, she recognized each mechanism as having been finely tuned and carefully polished.

“Everyone, this is a special occasion,” Ishmael said. “But a dreadful one. Violence is the absolute last resort for removing threats to the peace of the island, but we have found it necessary in this case. As a result, each squad member will receive on only round, and each will be live. To ensure a swift death, Doctor Kurtz will pin a cloth target above Olaf’s heart. If there are any objections to this proceeding, they should be spoken now.”

Nobody spoke out. The hour of finality was upon them. At the direction of the facilitator, Olaf was dragged from his cage to a nearby coconut tree. The drowsy condemned man was stood upright and manacled to the tree using more woven coconut fibers.

“I suppose this is my time,” Olaf said flatly as the first tinges of daylight peeked over the eastern sea. “I won’t give any of you the satisfaction of groveling for mercy. I’ll face my death without a blindfold.”

With that request, the doctor hurried over and placed an ear on the Count’s chest. After a few moments, he pinned a bright wool square slightly below and to the left of his sternum. “Aim for the center of that target,” he instructed. “Just pull the trigger when told to do so.”

“Before we proceed, do you have any last remarks for the record?” Ishmael asked. 

“I’ve said all I need to say,” Olaf said with a slight chuckle. “Let’s just hope you don’t regret this.”

“Ready!” ordered Professor Fletcher.

Violet and the other shooters ensured that their rounds were indeed loaded and ready to fire. They raised their weapons to firing position.

“Aim!”

The eldest Baudelaire lined up the dead center of the target with the gun’s iron sights. She often speculated about such a situation, where she was the one with the power of mercy or death over Olaf, and wondered if she could live with the consequences of such a choice. Seconds stretched into years as she recollected the abuses heaped upon her and her siblings by this treacherous man and made her peace with her next course of action.

“FIRE!”

Five .30 caliber bullets flew ten meters through the cool morning air as the sun finally broke above the blue yonder. Each found its mark, forming a tight pattern within the square target. As she lowered her barrel, Violet found to her surprise that the Count had not actually died from these mortal wounds. Blood gushed forth, but was not bright pink as characteristic of an severed artery. In desperation, she turned to Ishmael.

“He’s not dead!” she yelled in disbelief. “What do we do?”

Instead of answering with words, the facilitator reached into his white robe and produced a silver stiletto dagger ending in a cylindrical wooden hilt. Engraved on the double-edged blade were the words “La Misericorde Du Feu.” She instantly knew what had to be done. Grasping the blade by its handle tightly, she walked over to the Count, who was wracked with agony and beginning to lose consciousness. 

“The evil that flenses skin and rends souls is me,” she declared. “And at least for the last moments of your life, let those words ring true.”

With that utterance, she plunged the Misericorde into Olaf’s larynx and slit his throat from ear to ear in two swift motions. The Baudelaires had finally concluded their plight at gunpoint.


End file.
